


It's Only Love

by Zhie



Series: Bunniverse [17]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Bunniverse, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-22
Updated: 2016-05-22
Packaged: 2018-06-10 02:17:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6933997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zhie/pseuds/Zhie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fingon's dreams betray his secret thoughts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> When this was originally posted, I had naysayers from 'the old days' confused that a period Silm fic would use Sindarinized names. When I reposted it in 2007, I switched everything to Quenya, to which I then received comments that no one knew who anyone was because even Tolkien used the Sindarin names in the Silm. So this is the re-re-vised version, with a combination thereof, and the moral of 'You can't please everyone, so just deal with seeing Maedhros, Maitimo, and Russandol all in the same fic, the end.' 
> 
> Because this is really just a PWP, and in the end, are we here to debate the naming of elves, or just be literary voyeurs? If you keep reading, I think you have your answer, darlings. Enjoy.

“Fin, wake up.” Turgon frowned and poked his brother again. “Fin!” He glanced at the door, waiting for the moment that his parents would enter, either worried that their eldest son was having nightmares again, or upset that he had awoken their baby sister.

Nightmares were not the cause of Fingon’s broken moans, and this Turgon knew. His brother had confessed to him, somewhat, after the first few times. After their mother had left one night, Turgon watched his brother’s shoulders slump and his expression change from one of false fear to one of great concern. “Tell me what it is that ails you, brother, for it seems clearer to me than to anyone else that Irmo does not torment your slumber.”

“Aye...” Then Fingon had been for a long while silent, until early dawn broke and the rooster gave a premature crow. “Have you ever had a dream that seemed so very real, so much so that you believed you were living within the dream?”

“Sometimes,” admitted Turgon. “I have, now and again, believed myself to be hunting and when I woke—“

“No, no.” And Fingon shook his head, and smiled. “I forget at times how much younger you are than I; never mind.”

In those words, Turgon had guessed the riddle, for he was well beyond his majority despite being the younger, and had himself taken a fancy to a lady his own age. Still he was puzzled, for Fingon showed much more interest in hunting and camping with their cousins, Maedhros and Maglor, and with their full cousins, Angrod and Aegnor. Turgon sometimes went along on these excursions, though his heart was more into the building of roads and of tall structures, and in the sailing of boats when he had the time. 

He recalled the discussions they would have at times when they made camp and started a fire, and how the topic of available ladies was ever brought up in conversation. Fingon would remain quiet at these times when the others would border upon lewd, and it made Turgon wonder if ever they had spoken ill of the beloved of his heart. “So... who is she, Fin?” 

Turgon expected an answer of some sort, be it a name or a plea not to ask. But Fingon looked away and turned red, and then Turgon guessed the rest of it, and questioned no more the softness of his brother’s voice or that he painted his lashes, nor the times he sat quietly as they watched the wrestling matches instead of cheering for a victory or booing a loser. “So... who is he?”

The harsh tone of Turgon’s words was akin to a slap in the face, and Fingon did not even look upon his brother. There was no name given, but Fingon issued his plea. “Brother, if you love me, you will not tell Naneth or Atar.”

Although Turgon had sworn no oath, he kept the promise that Fingon had asked for. Today, he struggled to wake his brother. Partly he did not want anyone else to awaken, but his greater reason was more selfish. He despised that his brother had such thoughts and feelings, and though he had yet to act upon them, even that his brother dreamed of them repulsed Turukáno. To make him rise would end the dream, and some part of this thought made Turgon glad. “Wake up!” he hissed yet again, and yanked the sheet away from Fingon, throwing it immediately back down upon him. “Fin!”

The chill followed by the warmth upon his naked body startled Fingon awake, and he blinked and rubbed his eyes. “W-what? What is wrong?”

“What is wrong?” Turgon ripped the sheet away and threw it to the floor. “What is that!?”

Fingon chewed his bottom lip and regarded the silver dew that clung to his stomach and thighs. “It had to be the dreams...”

“Well, stop dreaming about... him,” Turgon sneered. “Stop being so... unnatural.”

“I... I do not think I can. Can you control your dreams?” Fingon countered.

“I do not have to,” growled Turgon as he stalked off in disgust.


	2. Chapter 2

“Where are your packs?” Maedhros looked over the lack of gear his cousins brought with them. “It is going to be chilly at night and your father will have my head if I return you with frostbite.”

“Which one?” questioned Angrod as he perched upon a pile of rocks arranged in the cave that served at the group’s meeting place. The entrance was behind a waterfall, allowing them some amount of privacy, and an alert to someone coming. In it they stored some of their hunting supplies and other items that would not be affected by the elements or the small creatures that wandered in and out.

Angrod’s brothers laughed and his cousin Maglor smirked, but Maedhros shook his head. “You are late, and unprepared. There is no excuse for that.”

“Does your Ata know you are stealing his lines?” questioned Finrod. He received a glare from his cousin. “In truth, Russandol, you sound like your father more and more.”

“And? Is there some penalty for that of which I was unaware?”

“Russandol, he meant nothing by it,” said Aegnor calmly.

“Then he should have held his tongue.”

The addition of Fingon and Turgon into the cave kept any further disputes from happening. “At least the two of you remembered to bring your gear,” commended Maedhros after the pair spoke their greetings. Turgon sat down beside Maglor to aid him in his task of fletching arrows for the group’s impending hunt, but Fingon remained standing beside Maedhros. The pair exchanged curt nods of greeting, with Fingon’s gaze lingering a bit longer upon his cousin. Well-shaped, he was named, and there was no doubt why. His height made his form and grace that much more impressive, and Fingon stole one final look at the glorious, fiery locks that curled down the back of Maedhros’s neck – the ones that in his dreams brushed against his thighs; the ones he held onto in his moments of secret passion, yet never dared touch in life.

While Maedhros began to plot out to the others how they would return to Finarfin’s house to collect what the others needed, Fingon reached into Maedhros’ pocket to try to sneak away the map that would show their path. It was custom for only the two eldest to know the route and keep the others guessing on their whereabouts. Normally Maedhros would give Fingon his plans to look over when he arrived, but Maedhros was more concerned with other matters, and Fingon was nothing if not impatient about such things. There was always a map, though so far Fingon had found only a scrap of cloth, a list of items with each of them crossed off, and an acorn with a missing top. He continued his search, ignoring Maedhros’ words completely as he dug deeper and frowned to find nothing else. Finrod snorted lightly when Fingon even turned out the pocket to examine it with a look of confusion.

“I hate to interrupt, since I know how much you like to talk,” spoke up Angrod, “but we are not coming.”

“What?” Maedhros took a moment to push away Fingon’s hand, retrieving for him the map a moment later from his other pocket. “You are such a bother, Findekáno,” he admonished gently, gathering the other items back and stuffing them into his pocket.

“Says the magpie,” said Maglor to Turgon.

Maedhros shook his head again before returning to Angrod and his brothers. “We have been planning this for weeks.”

“Perhaps you have been planning this for weeks, but we have had the misfortune of dealing with our mother and her delicate state this past year. She is due in two days, and we have been forbidden to go roaming considering the circumstances.”

“That is hardly an excuse, Ingoldo,” Maedhros scolded. “You might have informed me before I made preparations.”

“I assumed she would want all of us away, except for Artaresto of course,” explained Finrod as calmly as he might with his cousin’s dark look upon him. “As of this morning, she changed her mind. I have taken note that many elleth are like that. Our gear is packed, but she forbade us to go with you. I tried to bargain with her and have her give leave to Angaráto and Aikanáro, but she refused this as well.”

“And then demanded chocolate raspberry cordials,” added Aegnor darkly. “Father was nowhere to be found. I shall give you one guess as to who was so lucky as to be assigned that task.”

“So you are late and ill prepared due to your mother,” grumbled Maedhros. “Someone make a note – I am never having children – nor a wife to be certain, for wives always bring forth children.”

“He makes it sound as if they do it all on their own,” said Turgon to Maglor.

“May luck be on your side in that; it is a fate, sad to say, I believe we are all destined for,” Maglor grimly told his brother.

“Not I,” he asserted, and it was clear that there was to be no more discussion. Resigned to the fact the trio would not be joining them, Maedhros moved away from the entrance to the cave, which he had been blocking since the arrival of Fingolfin’s sons. “Go home, then, we shall plan for another trip in the springtime.”

“We really did want to come along,” Aegnor assured his cousins after his brothers had exited. 

Maedhros nodded and waited for them to manage around the waterfall and out of distance of hearing before he began to privately seethe and mumble to himself about the ruin of his plans. Turgon remained silent, fitting the feathers to the shafts. For a moment, Fingon began to say something, but decided instead to place his hand on Maedhros’s shoulder and give it a squeeze. Maedhros turned his head, red hair grazing the knuckles of Fingon’s hand, and the younger ellon sucked in and held his breath when Maedhros placed his hand over his cousin’s and gave it a few tender pats before they both moved their hands away. Immediately, Fingon looked to where his cousin and brother were sitting and relief soothed him when he saw they had not seen the exchange.

“You still have us,” offered Maglor.

“We are half of what we should have been,” argued Maedhros, though his anger had ebbed away after his contact with Fingon.

“More than half,” corrected Turgon. “Artaresto never does join us.”

“Yet he too is invited, and I must plan for the possibility he might decide to.”

Folding the map and handing it back to Maedhros, Fingon placed his hand upon his cousin’s back between his shoulders and rubbed comforting circles. “We will make the best of it, those of us who remain.” He offered a smile, which Maedhros returned briefly.

Turgon, who had looked up and witnessed this, caught his brother’s gaze. Fingon muted his expression and dropped his hand to the side, but again he had been caught. At first, Fingon expected the standard look of loathing from his brother, but he was surprised to see Turgon regarding him with something akin to sympathy. Fingon fixed his eyes on the rocky ground to hide his shame.

“Maybe we should postpone, if you have put so much planning into it. Can we take the path in spring?”

“Not you as well, Turukáno!” Maedhros let out an exasperated sigh. “It should be done in autumn. There are reasons for it which I shall not reveal for the adventure would be ruined.”

“I hate to suggest we wait a year, but if your plan was for all of us and for autumn, we should really wait for Finrod at the least,” counseled Maglor.

Maedhros turned the folded map over and over in his hands. “How would you precede, Fin?”

Although all offered Maedhros advice, it was only ever requested from Fingon, who now licked his lips and considered the situation. Turgon and Maglor could easily find other things to do with the three weeks they had planned to be away, but the thought of simply going home disheartened Fingon. “We could still take a trip into Oromë’s woods, just to camp and hunt deer.”

“If I have to kill another deer, I swear Russandol, I shall start singing that song you hate and will not stop until next year,” Maglor warned.

Curiosity piqued Turgon’s interest. “Alright, I want to know what the tale is regarding the deer, but first, I want to hear this song.”

“No,” Maedhros said emphatically as Maglor began to open his mouth. “No song. Story later. Where do you suggest we go, then, brother?”

“Well... I have no suggestion for you, except that I would go all places but home, yet not to hunt deer.” In answer to half of Turgon’s questions, Maglor explained, “Father told us to bring him eight deer and demanded all does. Then he tanned the hides and scrapped the meat; I have been sore at him ever after. None of us knows what was done with the hides, and he refused to tell us and was quite cross that we even asked.”

“Is that why Tyelkormo is—“

“Yes,” growled both Maedhros and Maglor before Turgon could finish.

“I see.” Turgon finished the arrow he was fletching and set it atop the pile. “Well, I am sure Naneth and Atar would be happy to host you for the next few weeks, if you wanted to come with us rather than return home. There is a festival in a few days to celebrate Nessa that is always a bit of fun. There are deer, but no killing of them.”

“Really?” Maglor looked much more interested in the prospect of a festival than of hunting, and now abandoned his task to place his attention on Turgon.

Turgon nodded. “Good wine, and a lot of singing.”

“Really?” Maglor slid a hopeful look in Maedhros’s direction.

“Truly, you know how to court my brother,” teased Maedhros. “Promise him song and wine, and he is yours.”

Maglor made a rather rude gesture in his brother’s general direction, while Maedhros laughed. Turgon rolled his eyes and moved noticeably away from Maglor. Fingon remained silent. “I will not press you to follow me,” Maedhros promised. “Enjoy the festival.”

“Really?” Maglor was already placing the unfinished arrows safely out of the way. “Wish I had brought my harp,” he mused.

“You can use mine,” offered Fingon. “You can use my bed, too, if you want.” When Maedhros gave Fingon an odd look after this comment, Fingon worriedly said, “That is, if it is still alright with Maitimo that I go with him.”

Fingon received another knowing look from Turgon, which he avoided. Maedhros did not notice, or if he had ignored it. “Good. I would have gone into the woods on my own, but the excursion will be less lonely with you beside me.” The gaze which Maedhros regarded his cousin with made Fingon shiver slightly, and he nodded, his throat too dry for words.

“Enjoy your hunt, brother,” offered Turgon as he and Maglor gathered their things and left the cave. 

Soon, Fingon was left alone with Maedhros, isolated from the world behind the waterfall. “Are you sure you would not rather go to the festival? I can manage on my own,” said Maedhros.

“Actually, I would prefer to be with you, Maitimo. If you do not mind,” added Fingon quickly, his quiet words nearly swallowed up by the rushing water at the cave’s entrance. “My leave from the gymnasium is always shorter than I expect it will be, and I was looking forward to spending some time with you. And everyone else,” he hurriedly added. 

“But mostly with me.” Maedhros lifted his brows.

Fingon felt his throat go dry again. He nodded. “Well, we are the closest in age,” he stated matter-of-factly. “So, yes… mostly, with you.”

Maedhros nodded, and smiled. “I was hoping you might say that.”


	3. Chapter 3

“I love watching the stars through the trees like this,” whispered Maedhros. He and Fingon had just finished their supper and were relaxing in the cool grass. They had yet to pitch the tent or even spread out their bedrolls. What was left of their dinner was being investigated some ways away by a pair of inquisitive young raccoons.

Fingon stretched his arms up over his head and let out a yawn. “I wonder what it was like to live at Cuiviénen.”

“Pretty boring, probably. Just talking and singing and swimming and...” Maedhros turned his head to the side and winked. “Well, you know. I mean, what else were they going to do all day?”

Fingon’s face turned crimson and he regarded the stars with deeper concentration. Beside him, he heard the grass rustle as Maedhros stretched out. Instead of moving his arms above him, however, he reached far out on either side, fingertips brushing Fingon’s side. The sound of a short, surprised gasp broke through the trickling of water some distance away and the chirrips of crickets nearby.

“Sorry,” apologized Maedhros, drawing his arms back in.

“No, that... you are fine, no worries,” Fingon mumbled. He turned his head to steal a look at Maedhros, and practically jumped when he found he was being looked at in turn. Once more he stared upwards and tried to appear deeply intrigued by the stars.

“Fin, I have to ask a question of you.”

“Yes... I think we should pitch the tent now,” answered Fingon, sitting up abruptly. 

His wrist was taken hold of before he could stand, and Maedhros held it firmly. “Findekáno, is something wrong?”

“Wrong? What? No, not at all,” he replied, making another attempt to stand. Maedhros would not let go, preventing him from escape.

“You have given me several odd looks today, and many more previously. Or, rather, I find there is increasingly a lack of eye contact. I would have you tell me why.”

Even now, Fingon averted his gaze. “I fear you will not be happy with my reason.”

“Fin, we have known each other since boyhood. We are the best of friends. What could you possibly say to make me unhappy?” wondered Maedhros.

“If I were to tell you, there is a chance that friendship might be lost,” Fingon replied quickly. “Would you really wish to jeopardize so long an alliance as ours?”

“You place it in peril by refusing to answer.” Maedhros let go of Fingon’s wrist. “Go,” he said sadly, with a dismissive wave of his arm. “I will not continue to force the issue.”

Fingon stood up once released, but did not stay so for long. He settled back down beside Maedhros, shoulder to shoulder, both of them staring at the same tree. “I am sorry,” Maedhros finally said, glancing sideways at Fingon. “It is only just that it seems to concern me, whatever is on your mind, and I am one part worried and one part suspicious that either I or one of my brothers have wronged you in some way.”

“No, it is not that,” Fingon assured him.

“Then what? I ask not of you, but of myself... I wish I could recall what it was that I did.”

“Nothing. You did nothing.” Rubbing his eyes tiredly, Fingon sighed and asked, “Have you ever kissed anyone before?”

“Why?”

“Please, just... if you answer, I will tell you what is wrong with me,” offered Fingon.

Maedhros contemplated the question. “My parents, my brothers.” Maedhros thought a little more. “There was a girl who lived down the road, once when we were children.” At this Fingon’s shoulders slumped, but Maedhros continued. “It... really did nothing for me. It was quite disgusting, in fact,” he recalled mirthfully. He sighed and it was his turn to find a point in the distance to stare at. “What you have to understand, Findekáno, is that females hold little interest for me. It may be an unpopular idea, but my desires are of a mate who I can hunt with and camp with, who will not be so inclined to spend their time weaving and gossiping and whatever else ellyth do.”

“I like you, Maitimo.” It came out suddenly, and seemed to surprise even Fingon. He had meant to give more of an explanation, but there it was.

“Well, I happen to like you, too, Fin.”

The words rushed forward now. “I mean... I really like you. I really, really like you. I like you in the sort of way that were you not my cousin, I would not ask you about kissing, I would actually try to kiss you.”

“Would you?” asked Maedhros quietly. He received a nod in answer. “Then what matter is it that we are cousins?”

“It matters just because it does,” reasoned Fingon. “Cousins are forbidden to—“

“Forbidden to have children, yes, but that would not be an issue. I am unaware of any limitations on love.”

No answer came from Fingon, for he was still trying to comprehend what Maedhros had just revealed. He was not revolted by the idea, in fact, he seemed to be rationalizing and encouraging it. Fingon dug his thumbnail discretely into the bend of his arm to check that he was still awake.

Meanwhile, Maedhros was wiping the back of his hand against his mouth and running his tongue across his teeth. His breath was no doubt reeking of the fish from their supper. He mentally scolded his dinner decision, but then, had he planned to kiss Fingon afterwards? No. Did he plan to now? Given the opportunity... he had to admit to himself, he had wondered about his cousin’s preferences, and was happy to be placed in such a position.

“I will be right back,” he promised before walking toward a clump of bushes. He pulled some of the fragrant plant he had noticed earlier up from the ground and walked back. “Here, chew on this,” he said, offering half of the mint stems and leaves to his cousin.

“Why?”

“Because it will make your mouth nice and clean. Unless you intend to kiss me with fish breath...”

Fingon shoved the plant into his mouth and Maedhros did the same, sitting down again with his knees pulled up to his chest. Although Maedhros eventually spat his back out onto the ground, Fingon swallowed the fresh mint when he was done chewing, hoping it might alleviate some of the jitters he was feeling in his stomach. He jabbed his nail into his skin again – still awake, he decided.

“Should we pitch the tent first?” Fingon heard himself asking. Now that what he wanted was so close he was not so sure of himself. Prolonging it suddenly seemed to be a pretty good plan.

“No; we might defer to logic or something.”

“Right. So, here then?” Fingon wondered if the loud pounding of his heart was audible only to himself, or if Maedhros was hearing it as well. He knew his shaking was visible when Maedhros placed his hands on Fingon’s shoulders.

“Are you afraid?”

Unable to lie, Fingon nodded, but did not look away. “Yes.”

Maedhros nodded back slowly and rubbed his hands up and down Fingon’s arms. “Me, too,” he admitted, and then he leaned forward with his head bowed and pressed his lips to Fingon’s.

\- - -

Instead of properly pitching the tent that night, they grabbed their gear and stumbled themselves beneath an old pine. After kicking away the fallen cones, they hastily spread out one bedroll for them both to retire on, and used the other as cover once they had shyly removed their clothing. It was not the first time they had seen one another in such a state, but it was the first time they were both staring at the ground, stealing glances, blushing madly, and stumbling on words.

“Do you... mind not having a campfire? We would risk damage to the tree... and the smoke would just go, er, it would have nowhere to go...”

“This is nice, we, umm, we can just keep warm together, then, and, umm, and the breeze is less under here.”

They had spent an hour kissing in the open before realizing they could be easily caught if there was anyone else in the woods. Now, hidden under the thick branches, they settled down, Maedhros on his right side and Fingon on his left, facing one another but not yet touching.

“I was thinking...” Fingon buried his hands under his pillow, wanting to use them for something else but not wanting to appear too eager. “I was thinking, we planned three weeks, but we could probably make it five or six, since we have the provisions for it.”

“True, but after three weeks, we would be sought after by our family, wondering where we disappeared. It would cause undue worry.”

“Right.” A light gust blew Fingon’s hair over his face, and he grumbled and shoved it back.

Maedhros sat up and laughed. “Turn around; let me take care of that.”

“What?”

“Your hair. Let me braid it for you so that it is not such a nuisance.” As Fingon rose and sat in front of Maedhros, the redhead said, “You keep courting disaster with this hair of yours. I never noticed until tonight how many times it winds up tangling in your food. You should really keep it braided.” Maedhros began to work on Fingon’s long hair with a frustrated grunt. “How can anyone with such beautiful hair let it get so snarled?”

“It snarls on its own accord. Ow! Quit pulling it!”

A long, thick portion of it was brought forward over Fingon’s shoulder. “Here, hold this,” directed Maedhros. A few minutes and many yelps later, he had separated another long chunk of it. “Tomorrow,” Maedhros informed his cousin, “the first thing we are going to do is find a place to bathe, and then you are going to let me tame this mane of yours.”

“How do you—ow – plan—oww!—to do that?” Fingon grimaced as Maedhros fought against the unruly tresses.

“Braid it. All of it.” Maedhros quickly plaited Fingon’s hair into one long, thick rope and tied off the end after retrieving the errant piece of cloth from the pocket of his discarded trousers. “Lots of little braids will be more manageable, and you can keep them braided for weeks before having to redo them.”

“It will look stupid,” argued Fingon as he looked over his shoulder.

“No, but it does look stupid when you are eating and trying to pull your hair out of your mouth because it got all wrapped around your trout.” Maedhros placed a finger over Fingon’s lips before he could issue forth his protest. “No arguments or no more of this.” His fingers slid down and moved beneath Fingon’s chin, tilting it up. They closed their eyes and kissed again.

With his head bowed down, Maedhros kissed Fingon’s neck and moved down to his shoulder. As Fingon moaned louder, Maedhros grew bolder, drawing the soft flesh between throat and shoulder into his mouth and sucking on it until Fingon cried out.

Fingon found himself back down on the ground again, spread out under Maedhros and at his mercy. There was no doubt Maedhros was taller, but he was much more muscular and therefore much heavier. Had Fingon not been so overwhelmed by the fervent attention he was getting, he would have shoved Maedhros from him, if he could. Instead, he closed his eyes and tilted back his head, gasping when he felt Maedhros’s lips seal over his skin. There would be marks, he could feel them forming already, but with any luck they would be gone by morning if he slept well.

If he slept at all.

Something was pressing down, being forced between his thighs. Fingon spread his legs to relieve the pressure on them, and felt Maedhros’s leg being lowered down, his knee roughly pushing against his groin. No one else had ever touched him there before, and even when he dreamed he did not masturbate, he simply released due to the dreams. Strong hands took hold of his hips and fingers dug in, and his bottom lip was bit into, pulled on, more kissing, harder, longer, warmth flowing through him, and then—

“Wait, Russandol,” panted Fingon against his counsin’s lips. Another kiss muted him, and for the second time he felt Maedhros shift his arousal. The tip of his erection, both hard and yet soft, nudged Fingon’s entrance. With both hands against Maedhros’s chest, Fingon gave a firm shove. “No!”

“What? What is it?” Maedhros sat back on his heals, heavily panting, sweat gleaming on his brow.

With his bottom lip trembling, Fingon admitted, “I am... not ready for that yet.”

Maedhros nodded, and leaned down to kiss Fingon’s forehead. “Sorry. I should have asked. It was just... you were so...” Another kiss was given, this one shared. “Never be afraid to tell me no.”

Fingon nodded.

“I will always stop when you tell me.” One final kiss was placed on Fingon’s lips, and Maedhros moved off of his lover. His hand reached down and touched the hard length that jutted upwards, and Fingon gasped. “Can I... do this?” he asked as he wrapped his fingers around it after licking his palm. Fingon nodded, and the world narrowed. Everything he had ever felt in his dreams was magnified to an intensity he could hardly have imagined. Body tensed and toes curled up, fingers clawed into the dirt, he let out a short, hoarse scream when Maedhros dipped his head down, sun kissed curls tickling Fingon’s abdomen and thighs.

“If you are going to do that every time, we had better find an even more secluded campsite.” Maedhros milked the rest of Fingon’s release with his hand, smiling down at him. “What were you doing, saving it up?” he teased, wiping his hand off on a small patch of grass.

“Sorry.”

“It was not a complaint.” Maedhros kissed Fingon a few more times before settling down beside him. “Mind if I try something?” When Fingon froze, shoulders stiffened, Maedhros assured him with, “I already told you I would not do that. I do not attend to release within you, I just want to release against you.”

“Oh.”

“May I?”

Fingon gave a little nod, still exhausted.

“Can you roll onto your side? No, the other way, facing away from me.” Once Fingon was arranged as Maedhros wanted him, the elder came close, his erection pressing against Fingon’s lower back. One long leg was lifted over Fingon’s hip, along with one long arm over his chest, holding him firmly while Maedhros rubbed against his back and nipped his neck. By the time Maedhros was groaning and nearing his climax, Fingon was hard again as well. The low groan in his ear as a warm, sticky dampness spread over his back sent Fingon over the edge once more.

\- - -

Cradled in Maedhros’s arms, Fingon relaxed and nuzzled his lover’s chest. “How long do you think we will be able to keep this a secret?” he asked. They had spent three days in the same spot, experimenting beneath the pine tree. They agreed to move on the next morning, lest someone should happen upon them.

“Maybe a few weeks, but I think someone is bound to figure it out.”

Fingon sighed, not looking forward to what his brother or father would have to say about his newfound love. “I would rather spend forever under this tree with you, away from the rest of the world.”

“Appealing as that is, I am sure there are some things you would miss,” reasoned Maedhros. “Let us dwell not upon tomorrow. Tonight, let us pretend it is only you and I, here, beneath this tree, and nothing more than that.”

That is how they spent the night, and the next, until the days and nights ran together and time was forgotten. Three weeks passed into four without their notice, and it was only when Maglor and Turgon came to look for them that they were brought away from their private escape. A noisy entrance into the woods by their brothers alerted them in time. They each parted for home when they left the woods, sharing a secret that they knew they could not keep for long, but still would cherish for all time.


End file.
